


Bring Your Hunger

by nihilistic_trout



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannictober Challenge, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Shorts, Switch Hannibal Lecter, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26764663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilistic_trout/pseuds/nihilistic_trout
Summary: A fill for the Hannictober 2020 Challenge prompts.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25
Collections: #Hannictober





	1. Scarves

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be titling the chapters according to the prompts and will include chapter specific warnings at the beginning of each. Not every chapter will be explicit but since I'm starting off with a bang (ha), I figured E would be the best rating from the beginning. Expect Hannibal and Will typical violence, possessive behavior, darkness, blood play, etc. 
> 
> For the most part, this will be a series of disconnected "drabbles". No beta and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Tags for this chapter include: explicit sex, blood play, knife play(?), light bondage, Hannibal and Will are in love, bottom Hannibal, top Will

Will doesn’t bring out the scarves until Hannibal is on the edge. Panting and sweat-slick, he pins his lover to the bed and secures first one hand and then the other in loops of soft fabric. They look beautiful on him, deep burgundy against the pale, faded scars that follow his veins, a facsimile of the blood that had once been spilled at Will’s request.

Heated jealousy claws its way into the back of Will’s throat but he bites it down. Matthew Brown is no longer alive to suffer Will’s retribution and, unlike Hannibal, he has never been satisfied with surrogates. That he had once allowed someone else to bring Hannibal pain on his behalf is unthinkable now. The only consolation is that he knows Hannibal thinks of _him_ when he looks at the jagged echoes of those wounds. Will has carved himself back into them countless times over the years, with teeth and tongue and blade. 

He settles one hand possessively over Hannibal’s wrist and digs nails into his skin. Nuzzling at the underside of his jaw, Will finds Hannibal’s pulse and catches it between his teeth, feels it flutter against the tip of his tongue. 

“Do you still want the knife?” he asks. His voice is husky and wrecked, throat sore from the abuse he’d inflicted on it over the last hour. Hannibal shivers at the sound of it.

“Yes. Please.”

Will nods and reaches for the small switchblade he had placed on the nightstand. It’s a pretty thing Hannibal had given him last Christmas, with a dark Damascus blade and a hilt of laced silver and rubies overlaying deep onyx. Nothing he would have chosen for himself, but he can appreciate the artistry of it. Can appreciate the reflections of Hannibal in it even more. 

He opens it with a quiet, sliding click, and Hannibal tenses beneath him in desperate anticipation. His hips rock up against Will, seeking friction. Will grins. Impatience is a thing rarely seen from Hannibal, but if Will is honest, it’s one of his favorites. Of all the unorthodox highs he’d ever chased throughout his life, all the things he’d done to feel alive, there is nothing quite like stripping Hannibal Lecter of all his stringent self-control and leaving him exposed and vulnerable. It’s almost enough to make him give in, to push Hannibal’s knees to his shoulders and fuck him to the right side of pain. But that’s not the game tonight.

Instead, he slides his knife-hand down Hannibal’s side, dragging the flat of the blade along his skin. Hannibal gasps, arches into it, snarls when Will pauses to kiss his way down Hannibal’s chest, and presses his tongue to a hardened nipple. Will chuckles softly.

“Where should I start?” he whispers. It's not really a question. 

“Will.” His name punches its way between Hannibal’s lips and expands around them, thickening in the air like honey. It's made of pure, unfettered desire, because Hannibal has never been ashamed of the things he wants, never been burdened by the guilt and inborn horror that had haunted Will for most of his life.

There was a time, not so long ago, when the thought of giving himself over to Hannibal’s desires had frightened Will beyond comprehension. He’d been convinced that if he gave in, he would be consumed in his entirety and Hannibal would still be left wanting. The reality is so far from that old dread. For him, Hannibal’s consumption is not a thing of destruction but of liberation. Will can surge into him with all the force and mercilessness of a flood, and Hannibal drinks him in until he can't anymore and then slips beneath the surface, happy to drown. Will is more than enough for him; he's too much and Hannibal craves every bit. 

Will settles his cheek on Hannibal’s chest and listens to his heart. He draws the tip of the knife down his body, not pressing hard enough to cut, only to press and titillate. Maybe to provoke, too, but one often equals the other in their lovemaking. 

Hannibal pulls in a sharp breath, almost a hiss. His body rolls to follow the trail of the knife, across his ribs and over the sharpness of his hip bone, flattening along the length of his cock before dipping down to poke and tease at his inner thighs and the dark bruises Will had sucked into his skin earlier. 

“Will. Mylimasis.”

Will hums and turns to press a kiss to his heartbeat. “What do you want?”

Hannibal squirms but doesn’t say anything. This is part of the game. Will likes to find the right place without Hannibal telling him, likes to tease and coax and exasperate until Hannibal’s body speaks.

Tonight doesn’t require much exploration, though. Will already knows what he wants. It had been six years to the day since their becoming. Six years since they had bound themselves to one another in blood and consummated with salt. Six years, and on this night, Hannibal always wants the same thing. 

In past years, Will had teased him for hours, taken his time acquainting every inch of Hannibal’s flesh with the blade before he deigned to cut into him and give him the release he so desperately craved. But this night, with the moonlight spilling pale through their window and the roar of the ocean a distant thrum out in the night, he _wants._

Shifting to kneel between Hannibal’s legs, he presses in close, forcing Hannibal’s thighs to spread around his hips. He takes his cock and guides the head to Hannibal’s slick hole and holds it there, smooths his hand along Hannibal’s stomach in lieu of an apology, and brings the knife to the knot of scar tissue low on his side. 

The reaction is immediate and as wanton as Will could ever hope. A soft whine tumbles from some high place in Hannibal’s throat and he cinches his legs tight around Will’s waist, digging his heels into Will’s back to force him closer. Will allows it, slides into him a few inches as he presses the point of the knife against him and flicks a quick glance up at his face. 

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” he says and means it. Hannibal is stunning in his rapture, straining against the scarves binding his wrists, and the bones and flesh binding the monster. 

Will slides deeper into Hannibal’s body until their hips are flush together and Hannibal is stretched around him, filled with him. Brushing his hand up Hannibal’s cock, he presses his fingers to Hannibal’s stomach and finds the place where, if he pushes down hard enough, he can feel himself inside. Hannibal moans loudly, then, all attempts at self-restraint abandoned and God, that’s the only thing Will needs. 

“Do you want this?” he asks, breathless because he’s close, he’s so close, they both are, but they have one more thing between them before they can tumble over the edge. He taps the knife against Hannibal’s side and shivers when Hannibal growls at him, incensed at the last bit of teasing that Will has decided to dole out. 

But Will has become a god and he demands more than blood and flesh for his sacrifice. 

“Tell me you want it,” he says.

Hannibal’s entire body arches off the bed. Toward the knife. Toward Will.

“I want it. Open me, my love.” Hannibal swipes his tongue across his lips, a performance but an honest one. “Let me bleed for you.”

That’s all it takes. Will drops his head with a groan and fucks into Hannibal hard, cuts one clean, deep line across his stomach, and watches the blood pour.


	2. Pumpkin Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal makes a pumpkin pie. Will disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Yes it's October 14. 
> 
> Here's day 2.

Will stared down at the thing Hannibal had set on the counter and tilted his head. "What exactly is this?"

"Pumpkin pie," Hannibal said without looking at him. He was still moving about the kitchen in that way he had, purposeful and focused, no movement wasted. Like a dancer. 

Or a killer.

Will scrunched his nose. "Pretty sure it's not."

Oh, there was probably pumpkin in it, but the only pumpkin pies he'd ever seen were simple filling and crust, maybe a dollop of whipped cream on top. This thing, though. This thing was ridiculous. An elaborate lacework of crust covered the surface of the pie, delicate leaves and vines all spiraling out from what he could have sworn was some darker version of a Cinderella carriage, and in the center of _that_ was a ribcage, the bones pulled back to reveal an anatomically correct heart. Because of course there was.

Hannibal turned to him with that strange, amused tilt to his face that never seemed to stem from any single place. It was like he felt everything with his entire body all the time. 

"I can assure you that it is," he said, circling the island to kiss Will's temple.

Will gave him a skeptical look that promised he _would_ be giving Hannibal shit about this later, but for the moment he only rolled his shoulders and waved his hand vaguely around the kitchen.

"Well, wrap it in some foil or something. We're gonna be late."

Hannibal stared at him as if he'd just suggested spiking it on the floor. Then, stiffly, he opened a cupboard and pulled out a ceramic dish with a glass cover and passed it to Will. Will breathed out a soft laugh and shook his head, but moved to very carefully put the pie inside while Hannibal gathered some of the other dishes he'd made: grotesque hors d'oeuvres, finger foods made to look like actual fingers (he'd had way too much fun with the irony of that one), and individually portioned out blood puddings.

Will had wondered, at first, how Hannibal would react to the idea of a pre-Halloween potluck.

The answer was with far too much enthusiasm and mirth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated, naturally, and I do try to respond to each of them, but I am about to get very busy so if I don't get to you, know that I love and appreciate you for spending time here and enabling my Hannigram fixation. 
> 
> The fic title comes from a song by The Amazing Devil called "The Horror and the Wild", which I heard on one of HighMagic's live streams. Rowan, if you happen to read this, you have killer taste in music.


End file.
